A New Genre
by Dan Maculla
Summary: Detective Roy Denton is called to the grisly scene of a young man's apparent suicide. His investigation leads him to the home of a sinister artist named Darcy Byron Thurber, whose maddening new work seems be at the heart of the suicide. From here, the detective is led into the dark conspiracy of an alien invasion. Adult language, violence, and drug references. Want reviews!
1. Chapter 1

"_MISKATONIC OPENS NEW ART GALLERY: Miskatonic University has unveiled their new Thurber Exhibit, which is now open for admission to all the public. The Thurber Exhibit celebrates the life of the late Darcy Byron Thurber, a local resident whose stunning oil-on-canvas paintings have been described as 'an entirely new genre' by one baffled critic." – Arkham Advertiser, October 2014_

"You wanna tell me why you called me up at 8:00 in the morning on a Saturday for a jumper Leroy?"

The chilled New England air was billowing over the Bolton Trestle, kicking up Roy Denton's overcoat in a fluid display of cheap discount store cotton. Rain was falling from the bleak grey sky overhead, reminding Roy of the opening lines to Gibson's _Neuromancer. _One hand clutched a generic black umbrella, while the other held his cheap coat to his chest to keep his tie from blowing in the wind. A discarded newspaper blew from a few feet away and attached itself to Roy's knee. He kicked it away with a dispassionate twitch. He was too tired to even notice it at first. His pale green eyes were hidden behind a film of what Roy, even in his adulthood, called "sleepy shit", not that anyone could notice because he barely had them open. His hair was a clumsy mess of unmade brown. It rolled over his ears and fell nearly to the top of his neck. He wasn't a big fan of self-grooming. _That asshole Leroy is gonna pay for this, _he thought to himself. Everyone in the Arkham PD knew that Roy regressed to the most basic biological habits on the weekend: eating, sleeping, and crapping.

To top it off they brought him to the scene of some suicide, of all things. Crimes were relatively sparse in Arkham, aside from its unusually high number of missing persons reports, but even so it was beyond him as to why everyone would get so damn excited about a jumper. _Not like they should be surprised_. The Bolton Trestle had been the scene of all of Arkham's suicides over the last 30 years. It was the Miskatonic region's own little slice of the Golden Gate. No one should care about this one, unless-

"His dad's Chief Doe, otherwise known as your boss," replied Leroy, as if on cue.

Roy put the umbrella into the trunk of the car, which was parked on the edge of the Trestle, and followed Leroy down to the bank of the Miskatonic some seventy feet below. It wasn't a particularly high jump, but the nasty bed of rocks immediately below it ensured a quick (if not exactly painless) death. The path down was steep and treacherous, and much harder to traverse in Roy's dress shoes. He saw that Leroy had already changed into a pair of sturdy work boots, indicating that he must have been out here for a while. _Guess I can't complain about the wakeup call, _Roy thought.

"What's the kid's name Leroy," Roy said as he made his way down with one arm balancing himself on a tree branch. "I wasn't all chummy with the chief look you."

Leroy chuckled. "John," he said between laughs.

Roy stumbled a bit, taken off guard by the kid's strange name.

"John? John Doe? You've gotta be fuckin with me Leroy."

"Afraid not," Leroy replied. "Either the chief has a weird sense of humor or he doesn't like his kid, in like a passive-aggressive kinda way."

The two police officers finally made it to the bottom of the hill, but not before Roy nearly fell flat on his face after tripping over a little boulder. "Careful," Leroy said, "Your job might be riding on this one Denton."

_Nepotism, _Roy thought.

Roy first saw the body once they had reached the riverbed. It was washed up just beneath the trestle, nestled between two black, heavily graffitied rocks. The one to the body's right had the message "JUST DO IT" spray-painted across it in gaudy red and purple script. Irony truly was a bitch after all. Roy made a small smile.

His smile promptly disappeared however when he got his first look at John's body, his morbid humor going along with it. The cadaverous flesh had been badly cut up when it landed in bed of rocks below the trestle. Most of his clothes had been ripped off, exposing his buttocks and his back. His spinal cord had ripped out of the skin near the nape of his neck, sticking out like a weird, dead parasite. All his limbs were fanned in awkward angles. His right arm was practically amputated, and only hung from the cadaver by a few thin strands of muscle fiber and a weak bone.

Even worse was the kid's head. It had been split open like a melon. Roy could see that whatever it was that had done the deed started by drilling into his left eye. Most of John's left face had been ripped and driven in by massive, sharp object, likely the size of a stalagmite. Roy looked over his shoulder briefly and saw a few of the likely culprits in the rocks below the trestle. Brain matter had spilled out from John's left face and caked his matted hair in lurid tapestry of organic greys mixed with the violent red of blood. Worse still was the quality of the brain matter. Roy was no medical doctor, but he was a detective and was well versed in his forensics. The brain matter looked diseased, spongy. If he had to guess, it almost looked like John had Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease at the time of his death. Gaping holes were splattered across the chunks of grey matter. If his rudimentary understanding of the human body was any indication, it was a wonder that John had the brainpower to commit his suicidal act in the first place.

"Jesus, Leroy."

"It ain't a pretty sight," Leroy responded, "coupla stoner types found the body around five in the morning. Snuck out for some ganja, you know the story. They weren't too happy to find a corpse in their little hidey-hole."

Roy could now see the butts of several joints hidden in the crags of the two rocks. _Looks like we found our graffiti artist, _he thought offhandedly.

Roy regretfully kneeled down. The blood-soaked water the Miskatonic lapped chillingly at his ankles. He was much too distracted by the grisly spectacle in front of him to remember that he had been standing in the river for the last minute. He snapped latex gloves onto his hands and turned John's head to the right to get a better look at the facial mutilation.

What he saw shook Roy to the core, and he wasn't easily shaken. Turning John to the right gave him a clear view of the wound on his face. From this angle, Roy could see all the way up the wound and into the diseased, waterlogged cavity that had one been John Doe's skull. What was left of his brains still had that spongy, unhealthy texture to it. Roy subconsciously noted that it also appeared much too fluid to be a healthy brain. The inside of the body's skull was more akin to a bowl of viscous soup than anything else. Roy could feel his coffee churning in his stomach, begging to be released.

It wasn't until the brain-soup moved that Roy finally regurgitated the sparse contents of his stomach. He managed to turn around and vomit into the cold water of the Miskatonic so he wouldn't disturb the crime scene. Leroy put an arm in front of Roy's chest to steady him and prevent him from keeling over entirely.

"Goddamn Denton, let it out," he said as he whacked the detective on the back with his free arm. Leroy was close to barfing himself, but he managed to swallow his stomach acid before it could extricate itself from his throat in a great, biological panic.

Roy finally finished vomiting and turned to Leroy. "Did you see that, man?" he said between chunky coughs.

"No but you're showing me a lot," Leroy replied.

Roy took a deep breath and focused his gaze on Leroy. He didn't need a coworker seeing him so shaken up. Roy Denton had something of a reputation in the Arkham PD. Finally he said: "Leroy, there was something _moving _in his head. Something was fuckin alive in there!"

Leroy glanced over his shoulder at the corpse. He took a long, painful look into his head cavity, trying to verify Roy's fantastic claims. It wasn't a pretty sight, but he couldn't see anything to suggest animation.

"I can't see shit Denton."

Roy pushed the officer aside and walked towards the corpse. He was in the zone now, and he wouldn't be evacuating anymore of his bowels today.

He took a small LED flashlight out of his coat pocket and searched the cavity laboriously, looking for any sign of his apparent hallucination. Maybe it was just his head. The staff psychologist said police work would get to Roy at some point, he just wasn't happy that it was today, if that is what it was. _Guess I'll see the doc after this._

"I swear, there was something in there," he said unconfidently. After several seconds he clicked the flashlight light off and wheeled around to look at Leroy again. "Maybe it was just my imagination."

At that moment, the blubbering mess that was Chief Doe came around the corner of the trestle. He was weeping hysterically. His tears had condensed into a dense fog behind the rims of his glasses. Roy could hardly see his eyes behind them at this point. Sweat glistened off of Doe's prominent bald spot like oil. The poor man wasn't even in his working clothes, merely being dressed in a pale blue pajama suit. His coat hung loosely from his frumpy shoulders. He still wore his nighttime moccasins on his feet. Roy wondered why it took the Chief so long to make it to the crime scene, and then he remembered that he was at a conference in Boston this weekend. A pang of sympathy shot through his heart like adrenaline. The Chief had to drive all the way up here in nothing but his PJs just to see the sickly remains of his dead son.

"OH GAWD LEMME THROUGH," Doe cried horrifically. He rushed to the corpse, letting the Miskatonic drench his moccasins and overcoat. He fell down on top of the body and hugged its blood-soaked remains tenderly, letting the mixture of brain matter and water fall over his clothes.

"Ohh mah gawd Johnny whyda do it?! Whyda do it whyda do it?! Whaddha me and Mavilda do wrong?!"

A motherly female officer rushed over to the chief and cradled him, whispering words of consolation into his ear. Roy turned again to Leroy. Both of them had looks of extreme pity painted across their faces.

"Shit Leroy, we've gotta figure this out," said Roy.

At that Leroy took a small ziplock bag out from the folds of his coat. Through the bag's translucent walls, Roy could see what looked like a blood-soaked wallet. He assumed it was John's.

"Take a look," said Leroy.

Roy removed his soaked latex-gloves and took the bag from Leroy. He pulled the wallet out and opened it, where he was greeted by the surprisingly handsome face of John Doe beaming up at him from his Massachusetts driver's license. It was hard to imagine John even having face, let alone a good-looking one. The rest of his wallet was occupied by credit cards, discounts, health insurance etc. Roy looked at it with a puzzled expression on his face. He rummaged around its many crevices, looking for any indication of whatever it was that Leroy found so interesting. Eventually, he found a small scrap of paper hidden behind John's drivers license. He unfolded it and held it up to Leroy. Leroy nodded slightly.

Roy turned the paper over and read it:

_John,_

_As a friend I must recommend that you see a doctor sometime soon. Regardless of how you feel abut my work, your comments lately have indicated a deeply troubled mind. This is not something to be ashamed of, nor considered a weakness. I only want to see you get better. Come see me soon and I can help you. I worry about you._

_D. Thurber_

Roy studied the note carefully, and came to the conclusion that it was a solid lead on what had driven John to suicide. He turned to Leroy.

"This 'D. Thurber' sounds like a lead. Any hits?"

Leroy nodded. "I thought so to. I think I've got something: an artist on French Hill. I checked into the kid's past. He went to Miskatonic and was majoring in art history. He wanted to work at a museum when he grew up."

Roy was amazed to see a tear trickle out of Leroy's left eye. He felt his own getting heavy at the sight.

"If this note's any indication," Leroy continued, "it looks like John might have been having some problems before his death. I think we should figure out what those problems were, and we'll start by talking to Thurber."

Roy nodded solemnly and once again folded the paper up, placing it back in the ziplocked wallet. He put the bag into his own coat pocket and looked over Leroy's shoulder at the Chief.

"Alright, let's do it," he said. Then he added, "No parent should have to bury their child."

"I agree with that," Leroy sniffled.

Suddenly, the Chief's cries turned from sobs of despair to screams of terror. Roy was so startled by the Chief's scream that he drew his gun. Leroy followed suit and they ran over to the Chief and his female companion. The Chief was scrambling madly away from John's body now, deep into the waters of the Miskatonic. The officer who was accompanying him actually had to dive into the water to prevent the Chief from floating downstream. She dragged him to the bank of the river and held onto him.

"Chief, what happened?!" exclaimed Roy as he began holstering his weapon.

The Chief once again began to sob. "Something, oh gawd, something came outta mah boy. Ohmahgawd why why WHY! WHAT WAS THAT THING!" The Chief was practically shrieking now.

Leroy walked towards the corpse. He hadn't yet holstered his gun like Denton. He peered into his skull.

Roy was certain that the folks all the way in Kingsport could hear Leroy's scream. He ran over to him, once again drawing his weapon. He had a hard time stifling his own shriek when he saw what was hanging flaccid from John's skull cavity.

It's appearance was something between that of a massive tapeworm and a jaundiced tentacle. It alternated between hanging out limply from John's skull and flexing weakly, as if to fight off Roy and his companion. To their mutual horror, they could see more of the wormy tentacles further back in the skull, swimming around in the fleshy soup like two aquatic snakes preparing to strike. It appeared that whatever the hell these things were, they didn't have much life left in them. That fact alone caused Roy to let out a deep sigh of relief. He holstered his gun, but backed away cautiously from the body. Leroy followed suit.  
"I guess you were right Denton," Leroy said, clearly shaken.

"Let's get some guys down here from forensics to examine the, uh, parasites," replied Roy.

"Parasites?"

"What else do ya want me to call 'em," said Roy with strained sarcasm.

Leroy eventually turned from the macabre display to go and console the Chief, who was still yelling like a scared child. After a few minutes, Roy drifted absent mindedly from the crime scene, clutching the ziplock bag in his coat as if it were a vital organ. He was shocked, appalled, and driven to get to the bottom this fast. This was no longer work, this was providing a father closure. This was personal. Roy had gone form joking about the kid's death to be deeply shaken by it in the timespan of less than ten minutes. He had to find this Thurber.

He walked up to the car, and drove towards French Hill.


	2. Chapter 2

"_The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston opened their 'Portraits of the Miskatonic' Gallery last Friday. The gallery is dedicated to the works of the many young contemporary artists that have their roots in the towns of Arkham and Kingsport. Artists featured include Lauren Nielsen, Shaun Robin, and the acclaimed Darcy Byron Thurber." – Boston Herald, December 2014_

"You kinda took off before I could give you the full

report," said Leroy over Roy's car's speakerphone, "so here it is. Full name is Darcy Thurber, he lives at 1600 East Street. I did a quick Google search on his name. Apparently he's some kind of half-assed art genius."

Roy turned from High Street onto to East, swerving to miss a car that had been lazily (and obstructively) parked in front of a Starbucks. Roy muttered a curse under his breath and turned his attention once again to driving.

"Ya say something Denton?" asked Leroy.

"No, just some asshole who couldn't park his car."

Roy squinted his eyes to see down East Street better. Past the beauty salon and clam chowder joint, Roy could see the beginnings of Arkham's residential district. Roy always hated driving in this side of town. Many of the houses in old Arkham were sprawling Victorians that had dated from before the First World War. The ones that didn't have such a distinction were done in an equally impressive neo-Colonial style. It all made Roy very subconscious of his shabby three-room apartment on Saltonstall.

"Anyway thanks for the info Leroy," Roy continued, "I'll call you once I've talked to Thurber."

Roy hung up the speakerphone by pressing a button on his rearview mirror. He passed Church Street and found himself in the middle of the sea of ancient houses. On his right were the even addresses, and took to closely reading the elegant letters that were stamped on the sides of the Victorians. 1200, 1400, 1600. That's the one. Without giving the house a second glance Roy turned the car into the driveway and cut the ignition.

If he hadn't cut the engine, he might have reflexively put the car into reverse and gotten the hell out of the driveway when he got his first good look at the house. Instead, Roy let out a sharp gasp and stared at it open-mouthed. It was a Victorian, just like all the other authentic houses in old Arkham, but it was painted an ominous shade of incredibly dark black. It was almost impossible the make out the house's many corners, windows, and odds and ends because of how dark the paint job was. In many ways, the house resembled an oddly angled black hole than anything else. The only color that permeated its landscape was a bed of dead or dying roses that lay before a window immediately flanking the driveway. Although Roy logically concluded that the roses had merely not been watered in a while, he could not help but feel as if the very life had been sucked out of them by the ever-sinister house at 1600 East Street.

Regretfully, Roy unbuckled his seat belt and left the safety of his car behind. As he emerged, he noticed that this area of Arkham seemed deathly silent. He could hear no voices, no Saturday morning whisper or howdya do. No buzz of an insect or call of a bird. Even the rushing water of the nearby Miskatonic and the soft patter of Fall rain was muted somehow. It was as if an invisible wall surrounded the house, one where everything that suggested life went to die.

Roy passed the bed of diseased roses and walked up to the porch. A large lion's head knocker was centered on the door. Roy took a deep breath and stared at the ring that was clamped viciously between the lion's jaws. _Damn it Roy, pull yourself together, it's just a suicide. _But it wasn't, not really. Not after what he had seen this morning, below the Bolton Trestle. Those parasites in John's head… _what the hell is going on here? _Roy stood for several seconds, letting the rain fall on his head and shoulders. He listened once more to the reassuring gush of the Miskatonic, and then knocked three times with the lion's head knocker.

After about half a minute the door opened.

Roy was greeted by the sight a disheveled man in a dark brown bathrobe. The robe was tied at his waist, revealing a white wife-beater beneath stained with coffee that covered his somewhat plump midsection. On his legs, the man wore dirtied plaid pajama bottoms. On his feet, he wore a mismatched pair of black and brown loafers. His hair was a tangled, greasy mess of black that fell across his ears and nearly obscured his hazel eyes. Skin was the color of a pallid cave-dweller turned even more white. The thing that put Roy off the most was his instinct that the man was not in such a sorry state because he was just waking up on a lazy Saturday, but that his state was the result of days upon days of personal mismanagement. The man's body gave off a distinct, sweaty stench that suggested he hadn't showered in days, if not a week. It was so overwhelming that Roy had to stifle a gag as he reached into his coat and pulled out his badge.

"Mr. Thurber, I'm Detective Roland Denton of the Arkham PD," he said as he flashed his badge and put it back in his coat in one quick gesture. "I'd like to ask you some questions."

Thurber pushed his greasy bangs out of his eyes with his right hand. His now fully exposed eyes stared back at Roy with palpable malcontent.

"How can I help you officer?" Thurber asked. Roy's skin broke out in gooseflesh at the sound of Thurber's voice. It was nasal and metallic, almost like a robot with a bad head cold. Yet there was something intangible in his intonation that truly disturbed Roy. It was primal, inextricable. After several minutes he would put his finger on it.

Thurber's voice suggested that his words were not his own.

"I want to know about John Doe." Roy found his voice shaking. With every quiver Thurber's malice seemed to become stronger, as if he was feeding on Roy's ever more apparent weakness. "I regret to inform you, Mr. Thurber, that John was found dead this morning. He took his own life by jumping off the Bolton Trestle."

Roy waited for any kind of emotional response from Thurber. After several seconds, Roy found this creature could show now emotion. Thurber just stared forward with his dispassionate hazel eyes. Roy wasn't even sure the pallid thing was looking at him anymore. Finally, after five seconds, Thurber managed to force out a few words of feigned sympathy: "I'm terribly sorry to hear that. John was a good friend."

The detective nodded. "I'm sure he was," Roy said dishonestly, "and now we want to provide some closure to his family and friends." Roy took out the ziplock bag and extricated the wallet, unfolded it and took out the slip of paper with Thurber's name on it. "We found this in John's wallet. It's addressed from you and it seems to make certain implications about John's mental health at the time of his death."

Thurber didn't even bother to glance at the slip of paper, but Roy thought he saw panic briefly flash across Thurber's eyes. _Bastard knows something. _

"I think you should come in detective. We have a lot to talk about," said Thurber with a deep breath. Regretfully, Roy followed suit.

#

"I met John in an art history class at Miskatonic," Thurber started as he and Roy were seated in the house's dense parlor, "We teamed up to do a presentation on Van Gogh and post-Impressionism. We got an A on the project, and we became close friends shortly thereafter. We drifted apart when I graduated. I was done with academia after I got my bachelors, but John wanted to stay on for a masters. He mentioned wanting to curate a museum, I believe.

"Around two months ago I started seeing John regularly again. We would meet at the University café and discuss Rembrandt, Michelangelo, the classics. John always had such good input for my projects. He was an extremely bright youth, and that is why the world is lesser for his loss. In any event, I eventually mentioned my growing interest in more _grotesque _arts."

The way grotesque rolled off of Thurber's tongue sent a harrowing chill up Roy's spine. He briefly clutched his notepad more tightly in a sudden panic.

"Are you familiar with Clark Ashton Smith, detective?" asked Thurber with morbid passion, "Or perhaps Goya? Fuseli? Even our local Mr. Pickman?" Thurber's eyes were now gleaming with wicked delight.

"I'm afraid not Mr. Thurber," replied Roy as his pad shook.

"Well I became fascinated by their work. So horrid, so dark, and yet so beautiful. Fear truly is the greatest of human emotions, isn't it detective?"

All Roy could do was shake and nod. The sinister atmosphere was practically unbearable now.

"I knew I had to paint in their style, and I did so. It was after I started these new paintings that poor John began to suffer his nervous breakdown. It started about a month ago. I had invited John over to take a look at my new paintings over wine and cheese. I had _insisted _to get his input on them." A predatory gaze briefly flashed over Thurber's eyes. Thurber followed this look with a phoned-in frown and sob. "If I had known what I was doing to him, I would've stopped right there detective, believe me."

Roy didn't, but he asked Thurber to please continue.

"John was horrified by what I'd had shown him. He rushed out the door without even saying goodbye or taking his coat. The last I'd seen of him for two weeks would be him speeding off down East Street in his car. It was like he couldn't get away fast enough. I called up John's house when I thought he would be home. No answer.

"I finally managed to get a hold of him two days after my unveiling. John was deeply upset, and I could detect his madness in his quivering voice. He screamed at me over the phone to burn all the paintings, saying that he could feel, if you'll forgive the expletive, '_fucking worms_' inside of the paintings, living and squirming about in the paint. He said that my artwork was not only evil, but that it behaved like a cancer. That the artwork was parasitical, and that if I didn't want to be 'infected' like he had, I should destroy it immediately.

"John continued to call me over the next few weeks, always making the same demands. Eventually I was forced to block John's number to save myself from his harassment. It was then that John took things into his own hands.

"Two weeks ago, I came home from a meeting I had with a curator at Miskatonic U. All the lights in my house were off, which was strange because usually I leave one lamp on in the parlor to ward off intruders. When I entered, John was hiding in the gallery, trying to light my paintings on fire with a box of matches. It wasn't working, and in my anger and fear I threatened John with a kitchen knife, demanding that he leave. He broke down in front of me, begging once again to destroy the artwork. I eventually forced him from the house, and I guiltily admit that my aggressive handling of John may have contributed to his suicide."

Thurber made another false sob.

"I eventually took to writing him a letter urging him to seek psychiatric help. I'm no expert in psychology, but it seemed apparent to me, as it does to you I'm sure, that John was suffering from some kind of schizophrenic or schizoaffective disorder. I realize now I should have intervened myself, and not a day shall go by now where I don't regret stepping in earlier to help John.

"From here you know the story. John must have been driven mad by his paranoia, especially his belief that he had been made into a host for the parasite that lived in the artwork. In his depression, he must have wandered to the Bolton Trestle and taken his leap."

As Thurber finished his sickeningly fake sobs, Roy's mind flashed to the image of the limp worm-like creature he had found crawling inside John's head. _No, that's fucking crazy man. Soon you'll be taking long walks off short bridges. _

"I see Mr. Thurber," said Roy as he finished taking his notes. Roy wished he could stand up and leave right then and there, but there was one more thing he had to do, and he really didn't want to do it.

"Is there anyway I can take a look at these paintings?" Roy asked.

At that the detective observed Thurber light up in an almost murderous frenzy. His eyes gleamed wildly, excitedly. An expression that was a mixture of greed and blood lust passed over his face, and in his excitement Thurber jerked his head, causing his oily black hair to once again fall over his eyes. Thurber now peered out from behind his long hair like a predator hidden in the shadows.

"Of course detective," he said with what Roy thought was a grin, "if you'll just follow me."

Thurber stood up and led the detective out of the parlor, which was cluttered with books, discarded paintbrushes, and various plates and eating utensils that looked like they hadn't been picked up in months. They walked out of the parlor and up a flight of creaking stairs to the second floor landing, where the detective came face to face with a writhing tower of tentacles and flesh illuminated by some sort of eldritch moonlight.

"It's an Ashton Smith," Thurber said as he turned briefly to look at the detective. His grin was getting larger and more obvious now. Roy felt his scrotum tighten against his groin, and a fresh sweat broke out across his brow.

Outside, the light was getting dimmer. The clouds responsible for the rainfall were getting denser and darker. In the deathly silence of Thurber's house, Roy could hear the far-away rollings of thunder. The house was become tighter now too. The corridors were much narrower and cluttered with more artistic knickknacks here and there. Dozens of seemingly endless rooms jutted off from the corridor here and there, and Roy realized to his horror that if he had to hightail it he wouldn't stand a chance extricating himself from Thurber's labyrinth.

"Where are we going?" he asked Thurber.

Thurber turned around once more. His grin seemed to stretch to his ears now. He obviously didn't care anymore about feigning bereavement. "The attic. It's my studio and art gallery."

Roy followed Thurber deeper into the corridor. At the end of it the two made a sharp left turn into a closet-sized room with no lighting. Thurber left the door open to let in the gloomy overcast so he could see. He reached overhead and pulled down on a trapdoor. A path that was somewhere in between a ladder and a staircase fell down from above. Dust particles floated here and there in the grey light.

"Up this way detective."

Thurber climbed into the attic first and helped the detective up. The attic itself was a long, narrow room with an arched roof. It extended southward, connecting the north and south faces of Thurber's house in a dark cathedral of rotten wood and dust. Exposed fiberglass insulation to Thurber's immediate right caused him to start coughing.

At the very end of the attic were two half moon windows, reminding Roy of the cheesy horror shtick that caught on after _The Amityville Horror. _They weren't any laughing matter now however. The way the dark grey light came through the windows, not before being trapped in a maze of water which was falling down the windowpane, was highly disturbing to Roy. Below the half-moons was a series of six easels arranged in a semicircular fashion, all of which had a painting stacked on them. The paintings themselves were covered by heavy cloth that reminded Roy of velvet. Off to the side was a workbench containing several painting materials. This drab little corner of the house was Thurber's office indeed.

Thurber walked over the painting arranged below the right half-moon window. Behind it, he flicked a switch and a cheap bulb that hung in the middle of the attic buzzed to life. It never maintained a steady light, and flickered erratically in the attic's darkness. Thurber now turned to the painting once again, putting both of his hands on the velvet cloth which draped it.

Roy swallowed the saliva which seemed to be pushing at the back of his lips now. His stomach churned with anxiety, and his toes curled in fear. _Keep it together asshole! It's just some art-fart's cheap paintings. _

"Care to see, detective?" asked Thurber as he began pulling the cloth off. Roy barely had time to utter a fragile "yes" before Thurber pulled the velvet off in dramatic fashion, sprinkling dust here and there.

No words existed for what Thurber had put to canvas.

It was obscene. It was an abomination. It was flesh. It was cosmic. It was eternal. It was unimaginable.

Roy could not help but shriek. His hands clasped over his mouth. Somewhere deep inside the vast networks of his soul, a fire went out. A little joy was extinguished, never to be rediscovered. An indescribable, searing pain shot up Roy's spine and into his head, where it burrowed and made a little nest. He could feel his head tearing itself apart, trying to reconcile sanity with this unnamable vision which had now invaded his mind and sewn its seeds.

Thurber was beaming his sick smile at him, which had now contorted in a wild grimace of sadistic ecstasy. Sweat dripped down from Thurber's head as he whispered to the detective harshly: "Do you like it?"

Roy could not answer. He merely stumbled idiotically backwards towards the ladder which led out of this hell and back to sane reality. He groped around him for something – anything – that spelt escape from the attic.

"I… I… I have t-t-t-to go Mr. Thurber," Roy said as began to back down the latter. A brief glimpse of sanity shot through Roy's head like a bullet, and he took out his wallet. "Call me i-if there's any-anything else you can think of," he said, placing the card in front of him on the attic floor. "Bye," he whispered, as he slid down the ladder.

#

He half walked, half ran out of 1600 East Street to the safety of his car parked in the driveway. He threw it in reverse and sped off madly back the way he came up East Street, deeply relieved to be free of Thurber and that… thing that existed in his attic. Roy eventually began to sob in his despair as he drove towards the police station. When he arrived, he'd announce he was taking the rest of the day off sick. True enough.

As he drove, his sobs turned into letters. His letters turned into words. He would be nearing the university by the time he could make some coherent sense out of his words:

_"It's in me. It's in me. It's in me."_


	3. Chapter 3

"_NEW ART CRAZE EMERGES FROM MASSACHUSETTS: The introduction of the works of the late artist Darcy Byron Thurber to museums in Arkham and Boston, MA has resulted in an unprecedented rise in Thurber's grotesque style. Some have even reported that people who have never even thought about picking up a brush before have found themselves compelled to replicate Thurber's work. Examples of Thurber's style have been provided in this month's issue." – Art in America Magazine, January 2015_

Roy Denton arrived home around 2:00 that afternoon,

having abruptly announced he was taking the day off to the lieutenant who had temporarily replaced Chief Doe without even dropping Leroy a memo. It was now 5:00. His panic had subsided into a lingering fear and massive headache that, rather than growing weaker, had actually gotten worse since Roy left Thurber's house. Outside, the rain grew steadily worse. It was no longer a soft patter but a ceaseless RAT-TAT-TAT akin to rapid machine gun fire. Through the haze of his headache, the noise was even more extreme as it pelted his roof. He had taken two Excedrin an hour before to stave off the throbbing in his head, but it hadn't effected him beyond coupling his headache with a sickly lethargic state.

The detective was seated in a recliner in his living room, wearing nothing but his bathrobe and shorts as he stared blankly at some sitcom playing on the TV in front of him. His right hand limply held a remote, while his left held a cup of coffee with all the strength he could muster. The steam rising from the cup was a pleasant aroma and provided moment to moment release from Roy's headache. All the lights were out. Roy found his head hurt worse when they were on. He could barely make out the dim boundaries of his living room in the sporadic glow of the TV and the painfully overcast light outside. Every now and then, a streak of lightning would bathe Roy's apartment with the intensity of a camera with the flash on. _No doubt about it, we're headed into goddamn Fall in Massachusetts. More like Winter anywhere else. _

A shrill noise pierced the air, hitting the steel wall of Roy's headache like bullets. He groaned and looked to the coffee table in front of him. It was his cell phone. The screen identified the caller as Leroy. His contact photo popped up on screen, mocking Roy with a cartoonish smile from last year's Christmas party. Roy sluggishly leaned forward and put his coffee and remote down on the table, then grasped the cool, metal-like plastic of the phone in his right hand, swiped the touchscreen, and raised it to his head.

"HEY DENTON, WHEREDA HELL ARE YA?"

Leroy's voice seemed to be taken up to eleven through the reddish glare of Roy's headache. For a second, it felt as if some wretched, metallic arm had actually sprung from the phone and was sadistically toying with the insides of his ear. Groaning, Roy replied to Leroy:

"At home. Had to take the rest of the day off."

"YA SICK OR SOMETHING?" screamed Leroy.

"No," replied Roy, "at least I don't think so. It's just, ah how should I say this? Something about this case has gotten to me man."

There was a brief silence as Leroy absorbed the information on the other end of the line. There was a flash and a predictable clap of thunder. The rain continued to assault the roof of the apartment.

"I'LL ADMIT TO YA ROY, THAT KID'S BODY DID GIVE ME THE CHILLS."

"No it's not that," said Roy as he rubbed his left temple with his free hand. His eyes were squeezed completely shut now to block off any semblance of light. He continued: "Not entirely. I paid that Thurber guy a visit after leaving the trestle. He's a sick sumbitch Leroy, ya know that? He was practically smiling the entire time I told him about John's suicide."

Roy took a deep breath before continuing his story. "He showed me some of his 'artwork' while I was there Leroy. It's, my god, its indescribable. Its horrid, repulsive. And ya wanna know the crazy thing Leroy? Thurber told me that John lost his marbles after seeing the paintings for the first time. And ya wanna know what else too? If I had to guess, that sick fuck Thurber seemed to be _proud _of it. Sure he made a little sob here and there, but it was faker than fugazzi. And now ever since I've seen it too I can't get my head on straight. It's probably just all psychological because I was worked up about the kid's death, but I figured it'd be a good idea to take the rest of the day off nonetheless. I'll be back tomorrow."

There was a ruffle on the other end of the wire, as if Leroy was turning the pages of something. "Ya okay Leroy?" Roy asked him.

"Yeah, doing fine," replied Leroy, his voice softer now. _The Excedrin must be kicking in._ "Are ya doing okay now Denton?"

Roy uttered an almost imperceptible _uh-huh _in response. "Just have a bit of a headache Leroy. I'm on the pills though."

Leroy's reply to this last part was so quick it was almost an interruption. "Good," he said, "because I've got something you'll wanna hear. After mentioning Thurber's name to ya this morning I did some digging of my own. I have an old newspaper here from about a month ago (_explains the rufflin'_). Man, I'll tell ya, something weird is going on with Thurber, Denton. You remember that little meteorite that touched down round here a while back?"

Roy did. How could he forget? It was about two in the morning on a Saturday. Roy had just hit the sack after a long evening of weekend late-nightness. The next thing he would hear after drifting off to sleep would be the maniacal whistling sound of _something _screeching out of the night sky. For all Roy knew, it was missile or an airplane going down. Next thing he knew he was running into the interior hallway of his apartment complex in nothing but his night shirt and shorts. His religiously enthusiastic neighbor Mrs. Hadley was already out in the corridor screaming about Revelations and Rapture. Several seconds later, there was a loud explosion as whatever the airborne banshee was airbursted and hit the ground. The next day, Roy would learn that that object had been a meteorite that made it through Earth's atmosphere and just happened to be on trajectory for Arkham. It was the biggest science-related news story since the Cheylabinsk meteor touched down in 2013. CNN had front page coverage of it for more than a week. Additional news outlets noted the similarities between this crash and the other rock that touched down west of Arkham in 1927. However, most of the people of Arkham had disregarded their 15 minutes of fame by last week. Roy couldn't imagine what relevance it had now.

"Yeah, I remember it alright."

"Well, you'll never guess where the thing landed."

Roy sat up, his mind now fully transfixed on the voice coming out of his phone. In the sinister strobe light of his apartment, Roy let the words role from his mouth:

"1600 East Street."

"Yeah, Thurber's place."

The detective slouched back in his armchair as his well trained mind began to connect the dots. _No, that's crazy. _Or is it? A meteor lands behind Thurber's house, bearing God knows what from outer space. John comes to visit his buddy, and there were those things in his head. _But where do the paintings fit in? _Roy's mind flashed to the image of the searing pain he felt shoot into his head after looking at Thurber's painted monstrosity. Maybe-

"Denton, ya there?"

Roy realized he hadn't said anything to Leroy for several seconds while he lapsed into deduction. "Huh? Oh yeah I'm here Leroy."

He sat, contemplating what he would say next. How would he explain himself to Leroy? Maybe he wouldn't. _He's your partner asshole, trust him. _Sighing, Roy once again spoke into his cell phone.

"Listen, Leroy, do ya think the meteor strike and John's suicide might be connected? Maybe something happened to him and Thurber after it hit outside his house? Maybe something came outta…," his words trailed off as he became self-conscious about how ridiculous they sounded. Leroy replied before the detective could elaborate further.

"Space aliens, Roy, really? You gotta be kidding me."

"Look Leroy," said Roy as he began his hopeless argument, "all I'm saying is this all seems kinda weird. A giant space rock hits Thurber's backyard, and not long after he and his friend are both going off the reservation in different ways. John become paranoid and suicidal, and Thurber starts paintings those… things. And I saw his house man. It hasn't been cleaned in, well, about a month. Whatever he's got going there has consumed him to obsessive levels. You gotta admit it's peculiar."

Roy could hear his partner groan on the other end of the phone, and the detective could almost see Leroy's chestnut eyes roll. "I'm not disagreeing with ya Denton. I agree that this meteor seems to be connected to the suicide. And that's just it. This may not be a suicide. Maybe we should turn this into a homicide case."

"What?" squawked Roy.

"A traumatic experience like that could trigger psychosis in anyone. You said so yourself; Thurber was acting very oddly when you went to visit him. Did he seem particularly concerned about John's death? No. If anything, he seemed to be empowered by it. That and his 'artwork'. Does Thurber have an alibi for last night? Bet he doesn't."

Roy was now very upset, not so much at Leroy for forcing him back into an unpleasant memory, but because of his own shame. Of course Roy should have gotten Thurber's alibi this morning, that is if he hadn't ran out of 1600 East Street like a scared child. Mentally groaning at himself, Roy replied to his partner.

"I didn't get an alibi."

"See! There's a lotta gaps in this investigation Roy. Tell ya what, tomorrow or whenever you feel good enough to come back to work we'll go pay Thurber another visit. We'll go together this time, and this time we'll put the heat on him. He'll be confessing in minutes, I bet, just you watch. No space worms, no conspiracy. Okay Agent Mulder?"

"And the parasites we found in the corpse?" Roy replied, hoping to add some credence to his argument.

"Exactly that. Parasites. All manner of shit in the Miskatonic, Denton. Any body of water in fact."

Roy had all but given up on his brief foray into the fantastical. Defeated, he gave into Leroy's plan and hung up. He leaned forward, cupping his head between his two hands. He ran his fingers through his hair exhaustedly. A lot had gone down this Saturday. A damn lot.

He put his phone down on the coffee table and took once again to occupying his hands with his now lukewarm coffee and the TV remote. As finished off the last bitter, powdery remains of the drink, he began to flip through channels with his remote. He had to take his mind off the day's events, and so he flicked through the various stations desperately, looking for anything to take his mind off work. Maybe he'd stumble across some old blast from the past. _Commando, _or a Steven Seagal flick. He passed a few home shopping shows and ESPN. He was about to reach the movie channel when he briefly paused on the static of a dead channel.

Reflexively, his hand used the remote to go to the next channel. And yet, he felt something telling him to go back. _He saw _something telling him to go back. As the seconds ticked away, the presence turned from a whisper to a voice, from a voice to a shout.

_GO BACK!_

Roy did as much. The TV tuned back to the dead channel. The sound of grainy static came through the cheap speakers in front of him. Grey dots bounced back and forth across the screen. In them, something was happening. Something was taking form. Yes, he could see it now. The dots were turning to curves, the curves of a shape. The static was no longer just static. There was something in there, embedded within the white noise. It called to him. Roy could now hear another whisper licking at the back of his head, struggling for his attention alongside that other voice that told him to go back.

_I CONTROL_

What?! He could hear it now. It's words came through the mechanical static of the television set.

_I CONTROL YOU_

The detective's hands dropped the remote and clutched his ears. Sweat broke out across his brow, and he could feel his stomach churn as a fresh sensation of fear overwhelmed him.

_I AM YOU_

"No, you're not," Roy whispered. He felt fearful tears weighing heavily at the back of his eyes. He assumed the posture of a small, scared child begging to be freed from the torments of his schoolyard bully.

_I AM YOU I AM YOU_

"NO! YOU'RE NOT!" he screamed in near panic.

At that the other voice – the voice Roy somehow trusted – screeched forth. He welcomed its presence, even if it was just another manifestation of a rapidly emerging madness.

_GO AWAY YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE_

At that, the other voice retreated. The detective was glad to be rid of it. He fell off the chair and to his knees in front of the coffee table, tears now streaking his face in aqueous emotion. As it retreated, Roy could hear it whispering: "_I belong, I belong, I belong". _

"Thank you!" Roy cried out to this other voice, this protective presence. A smile broke through his quivering lips. If only he could reach out and embrace whatever it was that was responsible for shooing the invader away. He was returned with no answer.

Relieved, Roy stood up and held his head in his hands. His headache was worse than ever, but at least he had a friend in there, something that would tell the other thing (_the alien_) to go away. He decided he would take another Excedrin and drift off into sleep. Whether it should be considered an afternoon nap or an early bedtime was up to debate.

Then he looked up, and Roy screamed.

It was there. The shape had congealed into white noise of the television. It _was _the television. Fleshy horror had melded with the white screen, presenting itself to Roy in all the horror by which it had previously presented itself to him (_the painting, oh god the painting_). Except this time, something was different.

It was moving, and it was reaching out towards him.

Without a second thought, Roy jumped across the coffee table and grasped the television in both hands. He arched his back and neck as far away from the device as possible, so as to keep the squirming, writhing _thing _from grabbing him. He raised the box above his head, and with all the sickly strength he could muster, threw it down upon the floor with a large crash.

The remaining pieces of glass and tubing were quickly stamped into oblivion by Roy's foot. The once unshakable detective was now a hysterical, rage-filled mess. By the time he was done with the remains of his television set, the entire thing had been ground to dust.

Satisfied, and terrified at his own destructibility, Roy walked out of the living room and into his bathroom. He wept as he extracted a new Excedrin tablet and dry swallowed it. He banged his fist against the sink until it was almost bloody, as if this ascetic ritual would exorcise the invader from his body.

Then he felt the invader move in his skull. Roy stood in silent horror as he detected the folds of his brainy flesh rip and pull apart, as the thing squirmed and burrowed. It nibbled at his lobes with some sort of terrible mouth that Roy Denton didn't even want to picture. _Focus, Roy, it'll be gone soon. It'll be gone, It'll be gone…_

The thing came to a stop, and Roy could feel his brain settle once again. The ripping and nibbling halted as suddenly as it had began. He breathed one, two, three times and stared at his sweaty face in the mirror.

Then he turned around, facing the blank white plaster wall behind him. In ebbs and valleys of the plaster, he saw it.

He shrieked and collapsed to the floor as terror consumed him.


	4. Chapter 4

"_MASSACHUSETTS ARTIST BECOMES HOT NEW INTERNET MEME: Tired of seeing the image of a long-haired man's headshot being pasted over the same painting of voluminous tentacles over and over again? investigates this hit new Internet meme which has been taking over every corner of the Web these last two weeks." – , January 2015_

The cold cut a deep path into Roy's flesh. It

penetrated his innermost tissue, carving a direct swath of icy carnage. In the first few minutes of his wakefulness, Roy could swear he could see the varicose veins of freezing hell crawling through his skin through his mind's eye. His body was shivering even before he woke up, teeth chattering in a rapid conversation of hypothermia. His head was still in the wretched throes of the migraine.

He got slowly to his feet. His hands gripped and pushed against the Arctic linoleum of the bathroom floor. Condensation on the mirror had actually frozen over into streaks of ice. Outside, the pale grey light of the thunderstorm was gone. All that existed outside was blackness, and the continuous flashes of lighting and rolling of titanic thunder. Panicking, Roy darted out of the subzero bathroom, clutching the bathrobe around his torso in desperation. _Oh god, how long was I in there. _He scanned the main corridor of the apartment in fear, hoping to not see the shape which had terrorized him the night before. Or was it day? Time had become an amorphous unknown to the detective.

He could see nothing in the darkness. Moving slowly but defensively, he skipped out of the corridor and into the bedroom. It was just as cold in here, if not colder. He assumed he must have been out for a while for the apartment to get this cold. The heater had been off yes, but this was off the wall. There was no way it could get this icy naturally. And yet, was there anything about yesterday that had been natural? Who's to say that thing from the painting hadn't wormed it's way into the home the detective inhabited, spreading its cold tendrils out into the very fabric of his existence, trapping Roy Denton in a forgotten tomb. _No, it's gone. The voice told me it's gone. _

He walked over to the nightstand beside his bed and rubbed his eyes to see better. Although his vision was still muddled by the "sleepy shit" he could see the time on the clock as 2:34 in the morning. He had been out for around seven hours.

A fresh wave of cold broke out over Roy, coaxing his skin into gooseflesh. His teeth chattered and Roy could see his breath condense into a vapor in front of him. This was serious. Seven hours in this temperature and the detective likely had hypothermia. He walked over to the thermostat and cranked it up as high as it would go. _Fuck the utilities bill, Roy, just don't freeze to death. _

He decided he would need a hot shower to fully bring his body temperature down to an acceptable level. He turned the lights on in his bedroom, the corridor, and finally his bathroom as he prepared for his early morning soak. After turning the shower up as high as it would go (merely lukewarm now that Fall had arrived), Roy went into his bedroom and submerged himself into a mountain of blankets while it heated up. He clutched the covers close to his chest as he rubbed his hands together and took deep breaths. If he didn't get his body temperature down soon, this night could turn into a real emergency.

After a couple of minutes, Roy left the bed and entered the bathroom. He undressed and slipped his shorts and bathrobe into the hamper, deliberately keeping the fan off so as to trap as much of the pleasing steam as possible.

A brief moment of sanity returned to Roy as he stepped into the shower. The warm water fell across his skin in a cascade of solace as he closed his eyes and gently pressed his head against the wall of the shower. A relaxing sigh emerged from his throat as he took the next minute to let his thoughts slip into the comforting embrace of oblivion.

Roy stayed in the shower for a good ten minutes, not bothering to shampoo or clean himself in any way. All he wanted was the heat. The heat was safety. The heat was escape from the unimaginable horrors of yesterday. In this steamy little corner of his apartment, as thunder and lightning raged outside, Roy Denton of the Arkham Police Department was safe.

He watched the water fall down the wall in front of him in pleasing little streams. Droplets merged and split, creating a canvas of liquid shapes. They danced before his eyes, and Roy seemed to have never felt happier in his life as he watched the little water droplets congeal and compress in front of him into some sort of intricate shape. Or was it a body? A mountain? A mountain of flesh?

Panic hit Roy with full force. He lifted his head from the wall and stepped carefully back from the wall as if he was sleuthing his way past an unconscious predator. He outstretched his hands in an undetectable plea of mercy. _Oh God no, just let it go away. Let it go away._

The shape was now coming out at him. Plaster and water merged into apparent flesh, groping for him just as it had before in that mad attic studio at 1600 East Street. Just as the television had, which was now a slick pile of dust in his living room.

"No, just go away. I'll do anything, JUST GO!" he yelled at the shaped as it emerged from the wall in front of him. His naked back was now pressed against the opposite wall of the shower. There was no escape, no escape except to get out of the pleasing warmth of the bathroom.

_I CONTROL YOU ROLAND I AM YOU_

"No, no, no!" Roy cried. He began to peel back the shower curtain and edged his way away from the groping flesh. He could feel it's lust for his mind, for control.

_I AM YOU I AM YOU_

"NO!"

Roy jumped from the shower and to the cool linoleum of the bathroom. Behind the curtain, the thing undulated and begged, billowing the plastic veil in horrid pulsations. Roy's face contorted into a grimace of terror. He didn't even bother to yank a towel from the rack to cover himself as he dashed madly out of the bathroom. Somewhere in the void of his apartment, the voice called to him as the horrible squirming sensation rippled through his head once again.

_I AM YOU I AM YOU I AM ROLAND DENTON_

The detective ran into the bedroom, screaming and crying madly for the voice to stop. Flinging himself into a comfortable little corner, he backed up to the wall and cowered as the voice slowly desisted… and the other voice spoke up in its calm, comforting tone.

_IT IS GONE _

Roy breathed huskily. Between sobs he thanked the voice for its comfort.

_IT IS GONE NOW YOU MUST FIGHT IT_

Still stripped to his bare skin, the detective stood up and walked from his safe corner of the bedroom. He walked to his dresser and put a new pair of shorts on then walked over to the bed and sat down on the right edge of the frame.

"How do I stop it?" he muttered to the other voice. In his terror, Roy didn't have time enough to be self-conscious about his apparent lapse into schizophrenia.

_IT IS WHERE ANYTHING ELSE IS NOT AND YET IT COMES FROM WHERE ANYTHING ELSE IS_

"What do you mean?" Denton took to taking deep, soothing breaths to once again suppress his panic. In his focus, he hardly noticed the thunder roll outside.

Suddenly, it occurred to Roy. Where had he seen it? Three places. The television, the bathroom wall, and the shower wall. Connections? _Think, oh god think please lord just lemme fucking think. _It must be where anything else both is and is not. How did that apply to each of these circumstances. It couldn't, unless…

Yes that's it.

In every situation Roy saw the shape congeal out of blankness. In that sense it could be everywhere – anywhere – but only where he wasn't already distracted by something else. An existing picture or image, or some kind of kinetic activity. _No blanks. Don't look at the blanks. _

_ YES YOU UNDERSTAND_

His panic had been completely submerged by fresh sanity. Breathing deeply, he walked once again to the dresser, this time making sure to stare straight down at the moving carpet beneath his bare feet. As he reached the dress, he bobbed his head in a circular motion so as to prevent the thing from congealing out of the darkness of his drawers. He put on a pair of jeans on and a grey t-shirt. Inside, he heard the voice speak up once more:

_NOW YOU MUST DESTROY THE SOURCE_

The source. Thurber's paintings. There _were _a cancer. An infection transmitted exclusively through the living information of visual stimuli. That's what this thing was. Living information. It explained everything. Like any other organism, information must reproduce and feed. It must eliminate competition, such as the fringes of his own intellect that now spoke to him through the soothing voice. And like any organism – any virus – the information wanted to grow and grow and grow. Thurber's paintings, that was just it's schizogeny, it's way to fuck itself into existence. It had come in that meteor a month ago, and it had latched itself to the mad brush of Darcy Thurber.

Cupping his head in his hands, he knew what he must do. _Only fire destroys, and only God forgives. _

Thurber would burn. He and his whole damn collection of art which contained secrets – life - from beyond the farthest graspings of human comprehension. Roy felt a bright light of rage-filled hope burn inside his chest. It grew and grew until it seemed to burn every last semblance of the infestation from his body. But Roy knew it hadn't. Roy knew he had to fight, and he had to stop Thurber before the predatory organism could use him to spread, a tumor growing through the vast veins of human interaction and culture. There was just one more thing to do.

Roy went into the living room and picked up his cell phone. Its digital readout now read 2:55. He didn't care. He went into his contacts and dialed up Leroy. He had been to hell and back with his partner, and even if Leroy thought he was crazy (_probably am_), he deserved the benefit of the doubt.

The phone rang three times and then Leroy picked it up. Roy could hear his groggy voice come through the phone, speaking through a thick layer of "sleepy shit".

"Denton, whaddha hell? It's three in da mornin'."

"I know Leroy, but this is important."

Groaning, Leroy replied. "Whaddha need?"

"Meet me at the Miskatonic Cafe, the one a couple blocks down from the university, at 10:00 tomorr- today. I made a… breakthrough in the John Doe case. It can't wait."

There was silence as Leroy thought. Roy could hear his partner's sheets ruffle as he supposed Leroy sat up in bed.

"I'll meet ya there Denton. Just go back to sleep. Hell, let your pal sleep for starters."

With that, Leroy hung up. Confident, Roy stood up and left the bedroom. In the kitchen, he made himself a revitalizing cup of coffee. As he drank, he turned on the television and stared blankly at the banal sitcom he had been watching the night before. He had to keep the thing from coming to him once more.

It didn't, but he could feel it churn and bubble in his head. His vision clouded briefly as the parasite wormed through the banks of his memory – his very soul. Although the thing itself didn't appear to Roy, the memory of the tentacles coming out of John Doe's head certainly did.

Then he pushed those unpleasant thoughts aside. Roy's mind fixated itself on one task, and one task only. He would extinguish the information. The intelligence which had transmitted itself through the unguarded cornea of the eye. His mind became a dark Ferris wheel which turned and turned, rotating as the mechanism of Roy's contraption plotted.

_Only fire destroys. _

#

The storm had receded to a slight drizzle by the time Leroy pulled up to the Miskatonic Café on River Street. The river was broken into a million different small ripples as droplets fell into the deluge, only to be washed out to the great and mysterious Atlantic.

He let the engine idle for a bit as he sat in the parked car. Not wanting to get wet without good cause, Leroy scanned the interior of the restaurant lobby and surrounding sidewalk looking for Roy. He still had no idea what the hell he was doing here. In less than twenty-four hours, Roy Denton had gone from being Arkham's best cop to a nervous wreck. As much as the thought embarrassed Leroy for suddenly finding himself partnered with such a disgrace, he was more disquieted by yesterday's turn of events. If something got to Denton, something really terrible was out there, and it was breathing down Roy's neck in hot, insidious whispers.

At last, he found the solitary figure of Denton sitting at a small booth in the café overlooking the Miskatonic. Through the glass of the restaurant, Leroy could see a pretty young waitress come up to Denton and ask him something, likely his drink order. Satisfied, Leroy exited his car, jogged to the door, and shook his coat off in the lobby. The waitress – the only one working the café on a dreary Sunday morning when most would rather go home for brunch after church – came over to Leroy, stuffing her billfold into her apron as she did so.

"Can I help you sweetie?" she asks in a thick, endearing Massachusetts accent.

"I'm meeting someone," replied Leroy as he pointed at Denton's half empty table.

The waitress nodded, picked up a menu, and led Leroy over to the table. Denton didn't even bother to look over his shoulder at Leroy as he approached. He appeared transfixed. As Leroy approached the table, he saw that his partner was coloring in a children's menu with a red crayon. His drawings were erratic and seemed to follow no particular pattern. It was if Denton just needed something to look at. _Aw shit, he really has gone over the edge. _

"Denton, whaddha hell are ya doing?" he asked as he put a hand gently on the detective's shoulder.

"Sit," said Denton. His gaze was still fixed his coloring.

After sitting down, the waitress came back over and took Leroy's drink order. He wanted coffee, no cream or sugar. As she walked away to fetch his coffee, he shot her a glance that said – in an exceedingly polite fashion – to kindly stay the hell away for most of Leroy's visit to the café. _See, my friend here is kinda fucking insane and can't be disturbed. Sorry. Can I get a rain check for the chitchat? You're kinda cute._

"Alright Denton, ya better have a good explanation for what the hell is going on, and ya better chalk it up fast."

Denton finally looked up from the kiddie menu. His eyes briefly fixated on Leroy's and then took to scanning the breadth of the café, looking for any kind of activity to keep Denton distracted from God knows what.

"Listen to me Leroy," he said as his eyes shifted back and forth, "I know that ya have a hard time believing in the more extreme shit this case has brought to the table, but this is important."

Denton took a deep breath and began to explain his story. Somewhere in the annals of his ludicrous plot, the waitress delivered Leroy's coffee. Leroy hardly noticed it, as his mouth was too busy standing agape in a mixture of shock and fear, not at the content of the story, but at Denton's apparent mental illness.

After Denton finished his story, Leroy finally noticed his coffee. He took a few sips as he tried to wrap his brain around how he would begin to reply to Denton. He finally decided on a firm, if not exactly indirect statement.

"Do you think you need help, Roy?" Leroy didn't often use Denton's first name. Now was one of the times.

"I'm not crazy," muttered Denton as he once again took to coloring the kiddie menu. Denton was now working on aesthetically destroying a playful sketch of an octopus. "I just know the truth, and the truth is I need your help, Leroy, if we're gonna stop Thurber."

"ROY!," he shouted, hoping his sudden rise in intonation would finally snap his partner to his senses, "listen to yourself. You're talking about an alien invasion here. And not just flying saucer shit either. What you're saying is this here meteorite crashes, an organism, sentient information whatever ya wanna call it, comes crawling out of it and latches itself on to the nearest human it can find. From there it, what, reproduces through visual stimulation? Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds man?"

Denton was now furiously coloring away at the octopus. The thin paper of the kiddie menu was tearing up where his crayon made contact with it. The sporadic red strokes of it almost made it look like the paper had begun to bleed from the wounds Denton was inflicting upon it.

"I'm not crazy," said Denton again.

Leroy sighed and leaned back in his chair, clasping the bridge of his nose between two fingers and squeezing his eyes shut. "Look, there's a lotta holes in your story Denton. For example, if Thurber really is at the heart of some sort of alien invasion then why'd he not just off ya when ya went to visit him? Why'd he tell ya the whole truth and then lead ya up to the attic to see the pain-"

"The painting, correct," Denton interrupted. "Why go through the trouble of lying when Thurber, or whatever it is that's controlling him, could just tell the truth and then infect me? The whole point of the paintings is to infect anyway; to spread the information."

"Which brings me to my next point," Leroy said, leaning forward, "if you're infected how come you're able to resist or sit here and talk to me?"

"It's a slow infection Leroy," said Denton as painful tears broke out across his eyes, "I can feel it working in on me every second. It tears at me man! I can feel the thing, the thing it birthed, worming around in my head. It's getting stronger every second, with every goddamn breath I take! I can see it wherever I look, that's why I gotta distract myself. It's in me Leroy, it's in ME and it ain't gonna quit!"

Denton was now openly sobbing. The crayon had broken through the paper and was now scratching furiously at the wooden table. Denton looked up from the crayon and, for a brief moment, stared directly into Leroy's chestnut eyes.

"Ya saw the things in John's head, Leroy. Those things, those horrible, wretched things, they're in me now. That's what happens when the information infects. It infects and then births that worm, that tentacl-"

"I saw those things too Roy," interrupted Leroy, "and yeah, I was shaken up by them. But they're just river parasites Denton. There's nothing to be afraid of."

Leroy now took to consoling Denton. He reached forth and put a comforting hand on his right shoulder. In that moment, Leroy's pity swelled to such a degree that he felt like reaching out and just holding Denton until the madness was gone from him. Then he looked into his eyes once more, and Leroy saw that the bright infernos of insanity were not going out any time soon.

"Look Roy, I think ya might need help. There's a psychiatrist who works at the department. She can help you, Roy, we'll get it sorted out."

"I don't need help, I'm not crazy," said Denton as he slammed his fist into the table. The waitress briefly looked over at them, concerned.

Leroy grabbed both of Denton's shoulders now. "Roy, listen to me," he said as he shook him, "I'm gonna tell the department that you're unfit for duty. They'll put you on a leave of absence, fully paid, while ya get you're head on straight. It's okay Roy, something about this case just got to ya, that's all. It happens to the best of us."

"I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not…" Denton was just a broken record now. Leroy decided his efforts were fruitless, checked his watch, and decided the best thing to do now was to give Roy some distance. Observed distance, that is. "Listen," started Leroy, "I need to go. But hear me out. If ya need anything, and I mean anything old buddy, I want ya to call me right away. Don't think, just call. I'm leaving my phone on until ya do. Don't bother coming to work on Monday. I'm going to the department right now and I'm gonna tell 'em you just need some time."

Roy slammed into the table once more. "NO LEROY," he screamed, "I don't need any of that! I just need your help, but if ya won't give it to me, I'll take care of it. Ya mark my words Leroy, I'll take care of it."

Leroy, who was now shaking with fear and anxiety, looked deep into Roy's eyes as calmly as he could. "Call me, Roy, if ya need help, and take care of yourself."

With that, Leroy left, passing the waitress as he did so. He slipped her a twenty dollar bill on the way out, covering the cost of the coffee and then some for Denton. She had both of her hands clasped around her mouth, and her eyes darted back and forth between Denton and Leroy as the two parted.

Leroy felt guilty leaving Roy – mad, screaming Roy – in the Miskatonic Café but decided right now he had to focus on making sure he couldn't get access to police resources. He got in his car, turned on the engine, and shot his partner one last, desperate glance.

In Denton's eyes, Leroy saw it all. He saw the passion. He saw the determination. He saw the paradoxical mixture of madness and calculated sanity. Most of all, he saw the danger of an unstable man pushed to his limits. He saw a man ready to take matters into his own shaking hands. As Leroy pulled away, he thought he saw Denton mouth a few words. It wouldn't be until tomorrow that he realized what those words were.

_"Only fire destroys."_


	5. Chapter 5

_"THURBER ARTWORK SUBMITTED TO THE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTE: The director of the Smithsonian American Art Museum announced on Friday that the work of controversial Arkham, MA artist Darcy Bryon Thurber would be included in the museum's next season. Responding to criticisms about the lurid subject matter of Thurber's work, the director said in a prepared statement that 'as Americans, we must not be afraid to explore bold new ideas and concepts,' and that it is the duty of the Smithsonian Institute to 'open young minds up to new possibilities'." – CNN, March 2015_

Leroy didn't have to worry about Denton showing up to work on Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday. On Thursday, the detective made a dramatic entrance into the department and demanded to see Leroy. It was still storming outside. The front hadn't moved on all week. Sgt. Barnham, who was on secretary duty, decided that forcing Leroy out of his lunch break was preferable to forcing Denton out of the police station.

"Denton, I told ya you can't be here," said Leroy as he shooed Barnham away.

"I know Leroy, I know it's just I wanna give ya another chance. I need your help on this, and you're the only one I can trust."

Leroy's eyes widened in fear as he realized what he was hearing. _Oh God, he's really gonna act on this. _"Help ya? Help ya on what Denton? Burning down Thurber's house? Do you have any idea how crazy you sound right now?"

"I'm not crazy!" yelled Denton. His eyes burned with a crusader's zeal. Leroy was glad he had told Chief Doe, who had just yesterday buried his son, to keep Denton off the force. Crazy was bad. Crazy with access to police firearms and authority was terrifying.

"Okay, so you're not crazy Denton. But I can't help ya. No one here is gonna help ya."

Denton scowled at Leroy, scorned by the sudden loss of trust. The zeal briefly vacated his eyes as deep, searing betrayal set in. A pang of guilt shot into Leroy's heart, and then he began to walk towards Denton, gesturing towards the door behind him.

"I'm gonna have to ask ya to leave Denton. Don't come back until you're ready to talk to the staff psychologist."

Denton turned around slowly, painfully. He grasped the door's handle beneath one trembling hand. Half out of the department and into the cool Arkham air, he briefly looked behind him and at the disgruntled shape of Leroy.

"I'm gonna do it, Leroy," he half-whispered. Fear once again flashed across Leroy's face. Barnham listened intently, wondering if he should just go up and put the cuffs on Roy Denton. "I just want ya to know I did the right thing."

Barnham suddenly sprang into action. He got up from the desk and walked slowly towards Denton, his right hand resting on the butt of his Sig Sauer handgun, the other outstretched towards Denton in a calming gesture. "Denton, I'm gonna have to ask you to come with us so we can help you," he said as he slowly inched towards Denton.

"Damn it Barnham don't!" cried Leroy, wanting to save his old partner some last shred of dignity.

That's when Denton pulled out a revolver from the folds of his coat._ Fuck! Figures he'd have his own piece _Leroy thought_._ He pointed it squarely between Barnham's eyes. His hand twitched to the Sig Sauer, but Barnham was much too slow for Roy Denton, whose eyes burned zealously once more. "Don't touch the fucking gun Barnham."

"ROY!", cried Leroy as he jumped back a yard, "whaddha hell are ya doing!"

"Just shut up Leroy," screamed Denton as he twitched the revolver to Leroy's forehead, "I don't wanna hurt anyone here, but you ain't gonna stop me! Ya hear me Barnham, none of you's is gonna stop me from letting that fucking thing burn!"  
Denton pulled his body entirely out from the door and into the street, he kept the revolver leveled as he slowly closed the bullet proof glass of the station's doorway, asserting one last time that no one was gonna stop him.

_RETRIEVE FUEL AND FIRE_

It was the comforting voice. Like any good mentor, it was telling him what to do next. It was telling him how to fight, as it had been all week.

He nodded at the invisible voice and backed up off the curb of the sidewalk running parallel to the police station. His car was parked directly behind him. In one swift gesture, he turned and ran from the doors of the police station and jumped into the driver's seat of his car. Inside the station, Barnham was rushing to the door, his Sig Sauer now drawn. Again, the sergeant was too slow. Roy Denton was speeding off down High Street, dodging between lanes and going up the wrong side of the road. A small Chevy swerved and honked before crashing into a fire hydrant in front of West Family and Co. Antiques.

Barnham and Leroy rushed into the street. For a few seconds, Leroy gave pursuit to the retreating figure of Denton's car on foot, before wisely assuming the effort was futile. He ran back to the station, his cheap suit and tie billowing in the stormy wind.

"Oh shit Leroy what are we gonna do?" cried Barnham as he holstered the Sig Sauer.

"Whaddha think Barnham! We're gonna pursue. I wanna an APB out on Denton's car ASAP. Call all the units outta patrol and tell 'em to go after Denton."

The two reentered the police station and Barnham went immediately to work over the radio. Other police officers were pouring out of their offices and into the lobby. Leroy stood up on a chair in front of them all to speak. Immediately, he began barking his commands.

"Listen up! Denton just went off the reservation. We're putting an APB out on his ass. In the mean time, I wanna patrol unit stationed outside of Thurber's house. He seems to be his target. Also, just remember, Denton's one of us. Try not to hurt him if possible. However, if he puts civilian lives on the line…"

Leroy paused, contemplated what he would say next, and then mustered up his courage.

"…do what ya need to do," he finished.

He told the station to break. Taking five minutes, he told Chief Doe the situation and then left the station, got in his car, and joined the manhunt. His mind raced with a thousand memories of Denton. _No, not Denton. Roy. _Last year's Christmas party, all the cases they worked on together. Denton was a good guy, but as Leroy had said at the Miskatonic Café, what happened to Roy could happen to the best of police officers. He briefly sighed and rested his head against the steering wheel as he tried to reconcile his fear of Roy with his brotherly love of him. Then, just as he was turning over the ignition and revving the engine, the radio sprung to life. The dispatcher's voice came through, ever calm and static.

"All units, we have a 211 in progress at 1313 Peabody Avenue. Repeat, a 211 is in progress at 1313 Peabody Avenue."

_Roy._

#

Herb Dufresne was a third generation Arkhamite. The Miskatonic ran as deeply in his blood as the cholesterol which now plugged his veins. Even deeper than that was the hardware store that he worked in, that his father worked in, and that his father's father worked in. Herb was half sure that he still had a dozen or so packets of ration chips from the Second World War buried behind the counter somewhere. Herb had all matter of crap behind the counter. Back hoes, shovels, zip ties, shears, _gasoline. _You name it. One thing Herb didn't have behind the counter however, was a gun. _Why the hell should I, _he'd say to himself, _it's goddamn Arkham, not Boston. _

Herb would come to regret this fact over the next few minutes.

It was a fairly slow Thursday for the hardware store. The rain had kept most of businesses to a static hum over the past week. Herb didn't really care. He held on to the business more for the sentimental value of it than the economic benefits. Mrs. Hadley, the Jesus freak, was browsing a selection of garden spades by the door. For what Herb could hardly imagine; she lived in an apartment. _It's business Herb, just drop it. _It seemed as if Mrs. Hadley had finally decided on a spade when a large sedan drove up onto the curve in front of the hardware store. Herb was never really sure, but he could swear it was at least doing a good fifty miles per hour when it mounted the sidewalk.

"Oh dear, what was that?" cried out Mrs. Hadley as she dropped her spade in surprise.

From his position behind the counter, Herb could see a sweating, confused man struggle himself out of the cab. He looked worried, yet aggressive. One hand was tucked into the folds of his coat, as if clutching something. Without warning, panic shot like a bullet from Herb's testicles, up his spine, and into his head.

"Get away from the door," he said to Mrs. Hadley.

"What?"

"Just get away from the door ma'am. I don't like this."

Mrs. Hadley had just shuffled away from the door just in time. Without a second's hesitation, Roy Denton threw it open with such force that it shattered over the display of garden spades. Roy sprinted to the counter and pulled his hand out of his coat. A shiny revolver was clutched in it. The panic shot back down Herb's spine and into his testicles, which he felt curl up. Sweat broke out across his brow as he stared into the barrel of the revolver.

"I don't wanna hurt ya," said Roy, "I just need something from ya."

Mrs. Hadley was cowering kitty-corner of the door, shrieking. When she looked up and saw her neighbor was the one brandishing the gun at Herb, she launched into a tirade of curses and insults.

"ROLAND DENTON, IN JESUS NAME PUT THAT GUN DOWN," she screamed. Roy and Herb ignored her.

"What do you need?" asked Herb, his hands shaking as he took his keys out of his pocket. "I'll get you anything just lemme live, please lemme live!"

"Shut up and get five gallons of gas!" Roy yelled back. He cocked the hammer of the revolver. The detective had no intention of shooting this man, but it seemed as if he needed a little impetus to move it along.

Without hesitation, Herb turned from the gun and glided through his key ring until he found the one for the gas cabinet. He usually fumbled over his callused fingers during this task, but the gas heist (_what kinda guy steals gas?_) had instilled his mind with great focus. He took the correct key and inserted it into the padlock that kept the metal gas cabinet shut. The padlock popped open and Herb flung it over his shoulder, sending it crashing into a display of cigarette lighters on the counter. He immediately began to take out empty plastic gas cans and fill them up at the pump in the storage room in the back.

By the time he had filled the third can he and Roy could hear police sirens approaching from several blocks away. _Get here soon. Oh God get here soon. _

"YOU'LL GO TO HELL FOR THIS ROLAND DENTON! JESUS WILL SEND YOU TO HELL FOR TH-"

Mrs. Hadley's tirade was broken by the loud crash of a gunshot being fired into the hardware store's ceiling. She shrieked and Herb fumbled over himself as he began to fill the fourth can.

"Goddamn it just give me the cans you've got filled already!" Roy commanded.

Herb took the three full cans and returned to the counter with them. Roy snatched two of them with his left hand and then, without even considering retaliation on either Herb's or Mrs. Hadley's part, put the gun back into his coat. He took the remaining can and one of the lighters that had cluttered onto the countertop before finally dashing out of the door. Outside, the sirens got louder and drew closer. Herb just stood dumbfounded behind the counter as the Great Gas Caper ran from the hardware store, got back into his car which had been clumsily mounted on the sidewalk outside, and sped off down Peabody Avenue. The cops were only thirty seconds behind him.

"Oh Lord curse that man. Jesus send him to hell, amen!" Mrs. Hadley shrieked. Considering the day's events, Herb took this time to finally express his thoughts on Mrs. Hadley and her beliefs.

"Shut up, ma'am."

#

Roy parked his car in the alleyway directly off East Street. He was still a few blocks from Thurber's house, but it was best he made the rest of the journey on foot. He correctly assumed that the police would station a unit in front of Thurber's place, and as he walked down East Street he could see the flashing lights become stronger and stronger as they reflected and bounced off the wetness of Arkham's many streets and windows. His face was tucked into the upturned collar of his coat in an effort to disguise his face until he got close enough to make a move. In his right hand he carried a plastic bag that contained the three cans of gasoline. Luckily he had forgotten to dump his grocery bags from last week. An elderly man in an old fedora hat ran past Roy as the rain increased from a light spitting to a considerable downpour. He clutched his fedora tightly in his left hand to keep it from blowing away. The gesture reminded Roy of the headaches that had plagued him all week, of the growth which he could feel moving through the inner folds of his flesh every day and every night.

Roy was only one block from 1600 East Street now. Two officers stood in front of Thurber's house, chatting idly and scanning up and down East Street for any sign of him. It was time to prepare. Roy ducked into the camouflage of a hedge that spanned the front of an apartment building across an alleyway from Thurber's house. Tying the plastic handles of the bag together, he turned the sac of gas canisters into a makeshift knapsack he could sling over one shoulder. He took the revolver out of his coat and checked the ammo. _Six bullets. _Roy obviously had no intention of killing anyone – anyone but Thurber and his master – but he figured the only way to get past the beat cops in front of the house would be to shoot them in the legs. Luckily, he was a damn good shot, and six bullets would be more than sufficient to wound the cops and finally blow Thurber to kingdom come.

The detective took a minute to focus himself. He reduced his breaths to deep, rich intakes of oxygen that both soothed and strengthened him. He closed his eyes and rubbed both of his temples softly, at last dispelling some of the pain which had been embedded into his skull by the invader. At last he was ready. _Shoot the cops, kill Thurber, and then burn the whole fucking thing down. _

He got up.

Roy Denton moved with all the speed and agility of a man on a very important mission. As he ran across the alleyway and to the front of 1600 East Street, he fired two shots off at the beat cops in rapid succession. The bullets hit their tried and true mark. Both cops collapsed in a grimace of stinging pain, but not outright agony. Roy made sure to only hit them in their feet rather than somewhere truly painful like their kneecaps or thighs.

"Yah goddamn sumbitch," one of them cried, "you shot me!"

Roy ignored them and continued up the steps and to the door. The plastic bag bounced back and forth on his back as he made his quick movements. Thumbing the hammer of the revolver, he briefly peered into the small window embedded into the black wood of Thurber's door. The coast was immediately clear, and Roy kicked in the door with a powerful thump.

The door landed as a wooden corpse several feet from its frame in the foyer of Thurber's house. Roy stepped in, his gun leveled and held between two hands. His eyes were ready to twitch to its trusted iron sights at any minute, with the explicit purpose of finding the perfect place to eliminate Darcy Thurber.

The house was dark and empty. Roy planted his back against the wall right flanking the eight foot archway that led into the parlor. He then whipped around and flung himself into the parlor, gun leveled and ready to fire. _Nothing._

Roy decided there was no time to waste. He ran out of the parlor, into the foyer, and made a harsh left towards the stairs that led to the second floor landing. He put his left foot on the bottom step first, causing it to issue forth a tired groan of worn out wood. Slowly, Roy Denton ascended the stair case, planting one foot confidently in front of the other for a dozen steps. He eventually reached the top of the stairs. The eldritch Ashton Smith painting greeted him at the top like a silent vanguard of the horrors in the attic.

Passing it, Roy ran down the second floor corridor towards the closet-sized attic entry room. In his rush of adrenaline, the detective's memory was clearer than it had ever been before. He recalled every inch – every atom – of Thurber's house in stunning detail. He even remembered the smell of old wood and muted, thick terror as he pulled the chain of the trapdoor above him, causing the ladder/staircase to slid to his waiting feet.

He carried out the climb dispassionately and efficiently. His mind was focused and had no time for fear. That's not to say he wasn't afraid; the detective was terrified. It just seemed that fear was on a subconscious level, or at least his diseased brain had blocked it out from his forward thought processes so as to focus on carrying out the act of survival. Regardless, Roy found himself standing at the top of the stair-ladder five seconds later. Standing across from him at the opposite end of the narrow attic were the six paintings. Their creator stood in front of them, arms outstretched in a crucifix to protect them from the interloper that had broken into their sacred shrine.

"You can't change anything," Thurber said in his metallic, nasal voice. "You can't change anything, for it has already beg-"

Roy leveled the revolver, aimed down the sights, and blasted a hole the size of a good-sized lemon in between Thurber's eyes. Blood and brain matter flew from his head and splattered the velvet cloth behind him, turning its color from dark red to black. A clump of what Roy assumed to be Thurber's frontal lobe landed on the middle painting – the same one Thurber had shown Roy – and slowly slid down its red velvet like a snail crawling across a hot garden. _Change that, asshole _Roy thought.

The detective wasted no time. He took the bag off of his shoulder and ripped it open. Inside, the three gas cans and lighter looked up at him, a cluster of cheap metal and plastic. Immediately, Roy went to work. Flinging the red velvet covers off, and being sure to not take more than a sideways glance at the horrors that lie beneath, he doused each of the paintings in a thick film of gasoline. As he poured, he could feel the artwork calling out to him, attaching itself to the innermost recesses of his mind and growing in a parasitical fan outwards just as the worm which was already in his flesh had. But that was okay, Roy Denton didn't plan on living with the invaders much longer. He planned to follow John Doe's example. Dying with your own mind intact was preferable to living with your thoughts slaved.

The three cans of gas proved to be more than enough, or so Roy thought until he reached the last painting on the left. He barely had enough to sprinkle it in a few drops, but there was nothing he could do now. The blaze he would soon ignite would light the whole house on fire, and the last painting was close enough to the source that it would be gone in a matter of seconds. There was only one thing left to do now, and that was to let the fire do its work.

Roy took the lighter out of his plastic bag, cupping it in his right hand like it was the only light left in the world. In a way it was. This cheap, hardware store lighter was the only hope Roy had in the depraved depths of 1600 East Street. It was his only hope at saving his soul, and saving the souls of others. All that he needed to do now was flick it on, and then throw it into the puddle of gasoline that was condensing beneath the paintings. _Just flick and throw, and all this will go away. _

_DO NOT DO SO I COMMAND YOU TO STOP_

It was the voice of the invader. It ripped through Roy's head with a searing pain that felt like lightning in the interior of his flesh. The voice shocked him so much that Roy dropped the lighter. Struggling in his pain, he bent down and picked it up.

_I AM YOU ROLAND DENTON AND I AM COMMANDING YOU TO STOP_

The detective's mind was now torn in two. One half, the sane half, was telling him to light it and watch the world burn down around his ankles. The other half, the stronger half, was telling him to put it away. Put it away and let the invaders do their work. The sensation was terrible, and as his mind fought it out, Roy found himself slowing slipping the lighter back into the plastic bag.

_YES YOU ARE DOING THE RIGHT THING ROLAND DENTON_

Then he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. It was Thurber's body, which he had forgotten since he started his act of destruction. It was crumpled less than three feet from him in front of the middle painting. Arms and legs were fanned out in awkward angles. The bullet hole had gone clean through his head, and Roy could see the blood drenched floor through it. But apparently it wasn't enough. Thurber's body was returning to animation as something, something similar to a jaundiced, wormy tentacle, crawled out of his head. Two others followed it. They cut a slimy path across Thurber's dead flesh. Falling to the floor, they crawled through the pool of blood. One fell off to the left of Thurber and was crawling limply towards Roy. The other two headed in the opposite direction. They all met the same fate though. Once they reached the gasoline, they suffocated and spattered, then fell over and died.

The macabre display proved to be exactly what Roy Denton needed to see. To see the worms finally die in front of his very eyes reminded him that the invaders were still mortal, nothing more than organic abominations from some outer arc of the cosmos, and they could be destroyed.

"SHUT UP!" he screamed at the voice. His throat burnt at the loud noise. Opening his bag, Roy picked up the lighter and held it at eye level. For one long, seemingly endless second, Roy just stared at the lighter, admiring its simple, utilitarian curves and humble design. The cheap metal gleamed attractively at him, even in the practically nonexistent light of the attic. For that one second, Roy loved that lighter with all the love his heart could muster. Every hope, every dream of freedom, had been condensed into that lighter. It was no longer a lighter, but an avatar of humanity's salvation. All that was needed now was to flick it on. _Flick and toss. _

In the distance, Roy could hear sirens approaching. _A lot _of sirens approaching, probably just about every cruiser in Arkham. There was no time to waste. Without saying any final word – no prayer or quip or last message – Roy Denton flicked the lighter and let if fall from his hands to the ground below him. As soon as it touched the puddle of gasoline which had congealed around his feet, the attic lit up in a dazzling display of bright, hellish light.

Roy felt nothing as the fire spread across the attic. There was no sensation of pain as it crawled up his pant legs and to his torso. The only thing Roy could detect was the distant smell of his own burning flesh. That and the ever so wholesome sight of the paintings, and the alien inside, burning and shriveling up to a crisp. As they burned, Roy saw their shapes quiver. The fleshy horrors inside of them seemed to undulate and fight. In his ears, Roy thought he could hear the rancid sound of them crying out in pain. The artwork didn't just burn, it sizzled and blistered as any flesh would. The deed was done, the things were dead. And now Roy Denton could join them.

The last thing the detective saw was the ghostly face of Leroy, bursting through the attic trapdoor with three officers closely trailing behind him. All color drained from his face as he saw his old partner reduce to black, ashy skin. One of the officers had a fire extinguisher, but that didn't matter. Roy's final thought was simply this: _they were too late_. The invasion had been stopped, and they would all sleep safely tonight because of Roy Denton's sacrifice.

A smiled pursed his charred lips, and then the orange-red glow of the fire turned to blackness. The detective was no more.


	6. Epilogue

_"ACHILLES PROTOCOL MALFUCTION AT 0600 ZULU TIME. SURGICAL EXTRACTION PROCEDURES HAVE FAILED. [CLASSIFIED] ORGANISM CONTINUES TO REPRODUCE. INFECTION REPLACEMENT PROCEDURES FAILED. DBT REPLACEMENTS ONLY HAVE 0.06% SUCCESS RATE. [CLASSIFIED] ORGANISM CONTINUES TO REPRODUCE. HEADS OF STATES AND UNINFECTED ACHILLES PERSONNEL ARE REQUIRED TO BEGIN ODYSSEUS PROTOCOL. REPEAT, ODYSSEY IS ENGAGED. EXTRACTION TIME TO [CLASSIFIED] IS GO AT 0400 ZULU TIME, MONDAY, MAY 11, 2015." – Internal security memo, 2015 G8 summit. _

The charred remains of Roy Denton were piled into a misshapen body bag and taken out of the attic by two officers, the same ones who burst in with the fire extinguisher just twenty minutes before. Denton was beyond saving by the time Leroy arrived. He had drenched himself and the attic so thickly in gasoline that Leroy could smell the fumes coming off him from the base of the second floor stairway where he was greeted by the unpleasant sight of Thurber's treasured Ashton Smith painting. The smell of gasoline was gone now, replaced entirely by the odor of carbonated extinguisher foam and the distant smell of burnt hair and skin.

The paintings had been destroyed. By the time the officers put the fire in the attic out, there was nothing left of them besides their blackened ashes which stood around Denton's remains in a bizarre semicircle. From them, Leroy detected an odor even more unpleasant than that of charred human remains. It was a fleshy smell, just like the one that Denton emitted after his passing, but far worse. At least Denton was human. Whatever had been passing this smell was far from it. Curiously, the smell seemed to come from the paintings, or what was left of them.

Thurber's body was found next to Roy. A massive gunshot wound to the head suggested that the artist had met his maker before being set to the torch, which wasn't surprising after the investigators found the melted metal skeleton of Denton's revolver in the sticky folds of mixed fabric and chest skin. The evidence was indubitable. Roy Denton, formerly a detective of the Arkham Police Department, and, more importantly, best friend of one James Leroy, had just committed a murder-suicide.

For some reason, James Leroy found this information surprisingly easy to swallow. Maybe it was the shock. Maybe it was the logical, transparent progression of Denton from sanity to insanity that Leroy – James – had been witness to over the past week. Whatever the reason, this man now found himself watching dispassionately as his partner of six years was carelessly thrown into an unmarked body bag, undoubtedly to be hauled off to St. Mary's so a rough autopsy could be performed. Afterwards, he would probably be cremated and his disgraced remains spread at some unknown location. Maybe he would get buried. If he did, his grave would be vandalized, and rightly so. _The Life and Death of Roland Denton: A Tragedy of Man becoming Monster. _Who cares? James could move on, and he couldn't explain why it was so easy to move on, he just knew he could.

He was too preoccupied with the one painting that hadn't been destroyed.

He caught just one glimpse of it only seconds after the fires were extinguished. It stood in the left-hand corner of the attic, the final canvas at the end of a row of canvases. Evidently, not _all _had been destroyed. There was one thing after all that the police did save when they ran in with their big, shiny red canisters. He first gazed upon it as the investigators began to take pictures of the corpses sprawled behind him. One latex-gloved hand pushed aside the charred remains of an easel. Behind it was the painting. Leroy, James that is, felt something when he first saw it. He couldn't put his finger on it now, but there was _something. _Fear? Wonder? A mixture of the two? It was a hazy feeling now, because now he simply adored it.

It was a strange sensation at first. Within seconds of him gazing upon it, he could feel the warm tendrils of the image crawling through his spine and into his head. But to James, who was always considered somewhat weak-willed by his colleagues, it was a soothing feeling, not an alien one. In fact, he welcomed it as the thought, the inspiration sparked in his head by the painting, crawled through the synapses of his nervous system. There was a pleasure associated with act of letting his complicated, grieving thoughts slip far away on little rowboats to the distant shores of oblivion. In their place, the painting had planted its seed. After oblivion, there wasn't blackness, there was hot, pulsating flesh which wormed through James' head with a bizarre form of affection, or at least what James took to be affection.

All James wanted to do now was serve his newfound caretaker in any way possible. He listened intently as the fatherly voice in his head told him to take the last remaining painting, put one of those protective plastic baggies from forensics over it, and walk calmly away from the crime scene, the painting clutched tenderly beneath the folds of his coat. And like any good son, James was obedient to this father-thing. To the letter.

As he drove through the twisted streets of Arkham, all James could think of was how happy he was. How blissful sweet submission was. To give in entirely to one thought… it was beautiful. Most of all it was plenary. There were no gaps in his mind now, no doubts. All there was undulating flesh, flesh born of an image, that told him what to do and how to do it. _Left here, right here. Just follow the avenue up to Miskatonic, my dear, sweet James._

Surely somebody at the university would be interested in the fascinating work of a mysterious local artist who had devoted his life entirely to the craft before it was ruthlessly taken away from him by some diseased authority figure. The entire story just had _college_ written all over it in attractive, old English script. The university would go mad for this stuff! Not to mention the originality of it. Hell, they might dedicate an entire exhibit to this painting at Miskatonic. And from there it was on to Boston, then to New York, then Washington.

After all, Thurber's work truly was an entirely new genre of its own.


End file.
